CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lonely, I have gone to bed, having lit the fire. My soul has been a restless bird that leaves to seek itself. For the hawk who breaks the confines of the shell, even the sky is not enough eternity.
He may be tossed by storms of whirling sand or riding a hot wind above the dunes. Far from here his voice may ring through forests from the branches of a mango. By the Nile he may wait silent among the reeds, catfish spawning as he sleeps, his head tucked in his wing. If you see him, send him home to me. The heart is uncertain country.
Ah, my soul's a restless bird. Words flow like rivers. Through my veins water churns on; on dark wings he flies from yesterday, love in his throat, the warmth of light among his feathers, the sun risen in his hard, amber eye.
--Excerpt from "Bringing Home His Soul", Egyptian Book of the Dead, as translated by Normandi Ellis
Eliana yawned and stretched indolently, feeling the morning sun beating down on her through the thin nylon of her tent, noting the stiffness in her muscles, the unfamiliar ache elsewhere. She opened her eyes slowly, momentarily confused, not realizing why. For some reason, it felt strange to be in the tent. In a sudden flood, the memories of the night before washed through her mind, and she bolted upright, pushing off the sleeping bag that covered her half-dressed form, running a hand carelessly through her tousled hair. A quick look around told her she was alone in the tent; a glance out one of its windows told her that the morning was already half gone. Where was he?
She found her clothes from the night before in a neat pile on the floor and threw them on, substituting a T-shirt from her duffel bag for the ruined shirt. With a grimace, she tossed the buttonless garment into a corner of the tent. She would either fix it later or throw it away. For now, she had more important things to do. Turning to her small bag of toiletries, she pulled out a mirror, hastily dragged a brush through her hair and tried to make herself presentable.
Pausing for a moment, she stared at herself in the mirror. Nothing had changed; nothing looked different. Perhaps her mouth was a bit swollen, her lips bruised slightly from his hard, demanding kisses; certainly, there were dark circles of fatigue under her eyes. But beyond that, the face looking back at her was the same face that had done so the morning before, and the morning before that. There was no sudden metamorphosis, no abrupt transformation into someone else, something else. All was the same.
Except on the inside, where it counted. Inside, she had changed irrevocably, eternally. There was no going back. She loved him. There, it was said—in her mind at least, and her heart, if not out loud. She loved him. It didn't matter that he didn't feel the same; it didn't matter that their paths in this life had only crossed two days ago. Her soul knew his, and her heart had recognized its missing half. She loved him.
Opening the flap of her tent, Eliana stepped out into chaos. Hers was the only tent left standing; the others were all torn down, neatly folded into compact packages for easy relocation. Everywhere she looked, workers bustled, hastily tying boxes of supplies, tents and personal belongings into makeshift pallets that could be dragged on skids through the jungle.
Oh, God, we're moving to the pyramid today! Eliana groaned. She had completely forgotten. But why had no one bothered to wake her? Normally a light sleeper, Eliana realized she must have slept like the dead last night and this morning, to have not noticed the noise and confusion surrounding the thin walls of her tent.
Eliana hurried through the bustling camp, looking for her father, looking for Imhotep. She found Bernstein first, deep in conversation with Dr. Robillard. The two men were not arguing, but their tone was impassioned all the same. She slowed as she approached them, not wanting to intrude.
"Robillard, what are you saying?" Bernstein asked in disbelief. "What do you mean, you don't have the personnel to transport Eric and Doug?"
"I'm sorry, Professor. I sent half of my people back already, to get the portable lab set up in the pyramid, and to get two quarantine chambers set up for the sick men. I have enough people to carry back the equipment we brought along, and maybe one extra to help move one of the victims." He shrugged. "You have plenty of people here. Surely you could find three men willing to help transport them. It's not that far, and we'll of course supply gloves and masks along with the stretchers…"
Bernstein shook his head. "I'm afraid you don't understand how superstitious and fearful these workers are, Robillard. But if nothing else, I'll help move them. I'm sure Akil will, also."
"Two younger men would be preferable, you understand," Robillard looked uncertainly at Bernstein, not wanting to insult him by calling him old, but not wanting to jeopardize his patients, either. "It's important that the transport go as smoothly as possible, and if you or Professor Hamid should trip or fall…" He paused. "Can you at least see if there are any volunteers?"
Bernstein's doubt was etched clearly on his face. "I'll do my best, but I can't make any promises. I won't allow any of the students to take that kind of a risk, and I won't force anyone else to do it either. It may end up being Akil and me, anyway."
Robillard clapped a hand on Bernstein's shoulder. "We will deal with it when the time comes, Professor. In the meantime, I'll be with my team. You know where to find me." Giving the archaeologist's shoulder a sympathetic squeeze, the French doctor turned and walked away.
Eliana slowly approached her father. He looked older than she had ever seen him, and tired. "Dad? What's wrong?"
"Ah, Ellie. You're awake. Good. Are your things packed? Tent down?" His smile was as faded as the blue of his eyes. She was almost alarmed at the change in his demeanor.
"My stuff is packed—I did that last night. But the tent's still up. Why didn't anyone wake me?" She peered at him more closely. "And what is the matter?"
He put an arm around her and, sighing, pulled her against him in a quick embrace. "We didn't wake you Ellie, because your friend, that Imhotep fellow, said you were exhausted. Said that the trip through the jungle was more tiring than you let on, and that you should be allowed to sleep. So, we let you sleep." He glanced at her. "You still look tired to me. Are you feeling all right?"
Eliana shot him a quick look. "I'm fine, Dad. Just feeling some stress, like everyone else. I hope I didn't throw everyone's schedule off today because I overslept. You really should have woken me." She hoped that the eagerness in her voice wasn't too obvious. "You talked to Imhotep this morning? Do you know where he is? Where I could find him?"
Bernstein looked at her, and though tired, his eyes regained some of their characteristic sharpness. "I talked to him shortly after sunrise, Ellie. A long time ago. I don't know where he is now—probably helping to get things organized and ready to move, like everyone else." He held her away from him, looking into her eyes. She could feel a hot, embarrassed flush stealing up her neck, coloring her face. Her eyes dropped, not able to meet his. "What is going on between the two of you, Ellie? Do I need to worry about this, too?"
She hastened to reassure him. "No." She cleared her throat, and her voice was stronger. "No, Dad, you have nothing to worry about. Nothing is going on." I've fallen in love with a man who was born over three thousand years ago, discovered that I am the reincarnation of his long-lost love, and one of the Med Jai who cursed us for all eternity is here in the camp, posing as a laborer. Oh, and by the way, that journalist from the Times is not who he appears to be, either… Oh, no, there was nothing to worry about here—just your ordinary, every day catastrophe waiting to happen.
He pulled her into a quick hug, his voice gruff with affection. "Good, Ellie. Good. I don't want anything to happen to you, and I have a bad feeling about that man. Like he could be dangerous to you, somehow." He released her, tipping up her chin to look down at her. "I love you, Ellie. You're still my little girl, and I worry about you."
"I know, Dad." She hugged him back. "I love you, too." She closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth and security of her father's embrace, feeling for a moment like a little girl again, safe and happy. With one last squeeze, she moved out of her father's arms and smiled up at him, frowning when she saw the smile on his face stiffen, become forced. She looked over her shoulder to see who was there, and froze, her breath catching in her throat, her heart skipping into a gallop.
Imhotep.
She started forward, then faltered, a range of emotions coursing through her. Love, joy, the memory of last night's shared passion… It was all mirrored on her face, plain as the sunlight that flowed down through the green canopy above. His own visage was a study in careful neutrality, but for just a second, she saw the flame of shared memory blaze in the dark brown depths. It was extinguished immediately, snuffed out before it ever really lived, giving way to a guarded blankness, a polite indifference that speared her heart and left it bleeding.
And she remembered her promise.
Schooling her expression into one that mirrored his, she walked towards him. She was near enough to touch him, so close that she could see every glint of gold in his eyes, every one of the tiny lines that fanned out from their corners and bracketed the sensual curve of his mouth. She had never felt so far away. Even when they had argued in the jungle, only days before, there had never been this chasm between them. Now, the memory of last night stood between them, looming large as the golden pyramid itself, a gigantic obstacle that neither would acknowledge, but neither could ignore.
But she had given her word, and she would keep it, even if her heart bled slowly to death as a result. She did the only thing she could do. With a small, polite smile, she looked up at him. "Good morning, Imhotep." Then, without even a backward look, she walked away. In silence, he watched her go.
Bernstein's gaze drifted back and forth between the two of them. Eliana was already almost out of sight, heading back towards her tent. Imhotep stood silent, unmoving, still as a statue. Try as he might, Bernstein couldn't manage to divine anything from the Egyptian's face. I'd hate to play poker with him, he thought, grimly impressed. No, he couldn't read anything from Imhotep's expression. But John Bernstein did know his daughter, and he had seen how she had reacted to the man he now faced. And now he was more worried than ever.
With a sober, almost unfriendly nod in Imhotep's direction, the older man walked past, leaving the priest alone with his thoughts.
Maintaining that aloofness, the purposeful distance, was one of the most difficult things Imhotep had ever done, no small thing considering what he had endured over the centuries. Although every instinct in him demanded that he go to her, take her in his arms and drive away the sadness in her eyes, he would not do so. He held himself back, almost shaking with the effort.
What sadistic irony, he thought, what poetic punishment for our sins. In this lifetime, there was nothing holding them apart. There was no Seti, no societal taboos. Even the curse was crumbled to dust. Nothing stood between them. Nothing except the mountain of the past, the shadow of her betrayal, and his own unwillingness to trust her again, or trust their love. And that was enough.
Imhotep bowed his head, an almost defeated look crossing his face. Only a little while longer, he reminded himself. Only a short time left until there was only a blessed nothingness. Wondering if he could manage to survive that long, Imhotep's long stride carried him off in the opposite direction from the one Eliana had taken. The more distance between them, the better.
Concealed by a tree, Ardeth carefully watched the Creature as Imhotep followed the retreating Eliana with his eyes. A baffled frown crossed the Med Jai's face. This was not the face of the monster he had expected. If anything, the man standing alone in the small clearing looked all too human, which went contrary to Ardeth's every belief, every prejudice. Everything he had ever learned about Imhotep, all the tales and legends that had been passed down faithfully from generation to generation, had hammered in the inarguable fact that the Creature was a fiend—a ruthless, vicious predator with only one weakness—his obsessive love for Anck-su-namun.
Ardeth reminded himself that this was the same man who had left him for dead in the pyramid just two days ago, the same man whom his forefathers had cursed countless generations past—a living aberration of nature. Imhotep was a walking plague, a demon sprung from some unholy pit, and it was Ardeth's mission to see that he was put back there.
But try as he might, he couldn't forget the look that he had seen flicker over Imhotep's face just a minute ago. It was not the look of a monster, or a fiend. It was the look of a man caught in a trap of his own making, hanging from a noose he had forged with his own two hands.
And Ardeth knew what that felt like. He could almost find it within himself to pity the priest. Giving the Creature a final, appraising stare, he went off in search of Eliana.
He found her at the edge of the camp, her back against the broad trunk of a palm tree, facing out towards the ocean of green they would shortly be crossing. He watched her carefully, searching for any signs of a change, any difference in looks or mannerism that would indicate a metamorphosis in progress. He saw none. No sign of a brazen courtesan, no hint of a murderous harlot. Nothing. If anything, she seemed like a lost little girl, even quieter and more reserved that the Eliana he had come to know and care for. Her head was bowed, her shoulders curved inward. She looked miserable, lost, lonely. Ardeth felt a sharp pang of guilt. She had been his friend. Could she help who she had been, any more than he could help who he was?
His booted feet spanned the distance between them; his dark-skinned hand fell on her shoulder. At her startled jump, he hastened to reassure her. "It is only me, Eliana." His softly accented voice was gentle as his dark eyes searched her face, taking in the pallor, the tinge of blue-black fatigue smudged beneath her eyes. The stress of the last few days had taken its toll.
She gave him a weak smile. "Hello, Ardeth. Dad giving you a break? Or did he send you to find me?"
He smiled back at her. "Neither, actually. I saw you standing here and thought you looked as though you could use a friend."
She looked away from him, once again staring off into the trees. It was a long while before she spoke. "And are you a friend, Ardeth?"
He should have expected it, but the question stung anyway, cutting sharply into the carefully erected barrier he had built around himself long ago. The silence stretched on, as he debated how to answer her question. Finally, he settled on answering it with one of his own. "What has he told you?"
At last she looked at him. He hated what he saw in her eyes, hated the distrust there, the guarded aloofness. "Enough. Not much about you, specifically, but enough about everything else." Her eyes drifted away again. "Enough for me to know that I can't believe you; can't trust you."
"You believe him, though?" Anger leaked into Ardeth's voice, past the wall inside him.
"Is he lying to me, Ardeth? Which of you has done that?" She crossed her arms over her chest, cold inside despite the heat of the morning.
His shoulders sagged. When he spoke again, she heard the sad resignation in his voice. "If I lied to you, Eliana, it was a lie of omission only."
"How is that less a lie?" Briefly, her eyes blazed in a green flare of anger, directed straight at him.
"I cannot say it was not a lie, Eliana." He turned away, staring into the forest as she had done. "All I can say in my defense was that it was done to spare you any unnecessary pain. If the Creature had not been awakened, if nothing else had happened here, if the dig was over and you simply went on with your life as it was, why would you have needed to know any of it?" He paused, glancing her way again. "What has the knowledge brought you, but pain?"
"There were a lot of 'ifs' in what you just said, Ardeth," she sighed, running a hand through her hair in what he had come to recognize as a characteristic gesture of hers. "Maybe you shouldn't place those kinds of bets on other peoples' lives."
"I am sorry," he said, moving to stand in front of her, looming large as a wall, leaving her eyes with nowhere else to focus. She stared at him as he took her hands in his, cradled them in his own large ones. "Eliana, please believe me. Had I known what would happen, had I even guessed what would come of all this, I would have told you. I would never have left you unknowing and defenseless against it all…"
"There's more to it than that, isn't there, Ardeth?" Her voice was steady, but her eyes were cold on his. "Imhotep told me how the Med Jai have persecuted him—us—over the centuries. You are not my friend, are you? You are here to watch me, to guard this secret of yours, and to destroy him…"
Ardeth sighed. How had it gotten this complex, this twisted? He tried again to explain himself, starting at the beginning this time.
"I am a Med Jai, Eliana. I can trace my ancestry back to the early days of Egypt. My forefathers were the elite guard of the Pharaohs, from times well before Seti, or Imhotep, or…" He paused. "Or Anck-su-namun."
"That's an impressive pedigree, Ardeth, but so what? You're descended from a long line of spies and liars?" She laughed derisively, turning her face away.
He held back the flare of anger he felt at her words. "My ancestors, from time immemorial, have been charged with the task of safeguarding the pharaohs and keeping safe the secrets of our order. From the time of Seti onwards, that task has expanded to include watching over the sands of Egypt to ensure that the Creature is not awakened, or if so, that he is quickly put back in his grave."
"Will you stop calling him that?" She swallowed the lump in her throat, the rising anguish. He spoke of Imhotep like he was a dead man, some sort of supernatural monster. She knew the truth of him, had seen it in the dark fire of his eyes, felt it in the burning heat of his skin. He had held her in his arms and loved her, and she had loved him in return. She did love him. "He is not a 'creature,' he is not a monster!" She could feel her eyes begin to burn, and she knew that tears were only moments away. "And if he is, what am I, then? My crime was no less than his…"
Ardeth's voice was gentle; his hands warm on her shoulders. "He is what the Med Jai forged—he is cursed, damned for all these centuries, damned for all eternity. You are whatever the gods have willed you to become, over however many lifetimes you have lived. The curse placed upon Anck-su-namun," he stopped, when he saw the hard look she gave him, and nodded in understanding. "Upon you, was to bind you to the earth, never able to enter the next world. You would still be able to live out a mortal lifespan, find happiness in this world. Your punishment was to never be able to walk with the gods in the golden lands of the West."
She was confused now, and pulled away from his gently massaging hands. "Why? Why was Imhotep's curse so much worse than mine? Why has he been tortured like this? We both killed Seti—why would only he suffer as he has?"
Ardeth stopped, taken aback. "He has not told you? I thought you said…"
"He told me about the past, about our past. He told me why we killed Seti." Her eyes narrowed, fastened on his. "Yes, Ardeth, there was a reason. A good one. Even I can see why they—we—did what we did." The blazing anger abated somewhat. "But why punish him so severely, when it was both of us…"
"He did not tell you the rest, then." Ardeth nodded in understanding. "He did not tell you that though it was both of you who killed the pharaoh, it was only you that the Med Jai found in Seti's chamber that day? Only you who stood over his lifeless body, still holding the bloody knife? That it was you who shouted a last confession and curse before plunging the knife into your own chest?" He saw even more color fade from her face, saw her knees buckle, and stepped forward quickly before she could fall. His arms now the only thing that held her up, he nodded at her. "Yes, Eliana, remember your childhood dreams, those terrors that plagued you. They were not dreams, or visions, or the creation of a damaged mind, as some would have you believe. They were memories."
She pushed his hands away, slid down the tree trunk and sat on the soft ground, hugging her arms around herself in a feeble mockery of self-protection. So much was now explained, so much made sense, except…
She raised her face to stare up at him. He was alarmed by the stark whiteness of her cheeks, the almost feverish look in her eyes. When she spoke, her voice a mere whisper, he had to strain to hear her. "Where was he? What happened?"
He sighed, understanding her question, bending down to rest on his haunches beside her. "He had not abandoned Anck-su-namun, Eliana. Far from it." Strangely, he felt as though he were defending Imhotep to her, for he realized, too late, how his words had made it sound. Briefly, he wondered if it would be better to let her think that the priest had abandoned her to her fate, but he had started with the truth; he would end with it, as well. "From what the Med Jai were able to learn from Imhotep's priests, before they were destroyed—mummified alive—he had to be literally dragged from Anck-su-namun's side. He was crazed with grief, would have died there with her, but some part of him knew that he had to remain alive for there to be any hope…"
"Hope?" She didn't understand. Anck-su-namun had died that day, confessed to the crime and sacrificed herself to save Imhotep. What hope could there have been, for her or for them?
"Do not forget who he is, Eliana, who he was. He was the high priest of Osiris, Lord of the Underworld. Imhotep and his priests were not only healers and scholars, they were the ones to whom was entrusted the rites and rituals of mummification—of preparing the bodies of the deceased for their journey to the afterlife. Imhotep was privy to dark secrets and arcane knowledge that would make most men cringe in fear. There was hope. But he had to remain alive to bring that hope to fruition…" He stopped, not sure if she was up to hearing the rest. The nod she gave him, the haunted look in her eyes, was his answer. He continued.
"You died that day. Thinking that you had acted alone, the Med Jai brought your body to the temple, invoking the sacred law, demanding that it be prepared for burial and that the curse be laid upon your soul. Imhotep himself was the one who read from the golden book of Amun-Re, condemning you for all eternity." He saw the sick look on her face, and odd though it was, once again felt compelled to speak in the priest's defense. "He had no choice, Eliana. As high priest, it was his bound duty to fulfill the sacred law. And at any rate, it did not matter, for the scheme you both had concocted was unfolding rapidly, just as you had hoped."
Eliana felt cold all the way down to her soul, as she imagined the horror of that time, of the malignant forces of that long-ago era working their foul magic, magic that echoed up through ages, reaching all the way to the present. Her inherent disbelief in the supernatural was rapidly giving way to a terrified acceptance, a sort of horrified faith. She listened in silence as Ardeth finished the story.
"After you had been prepared for burial, mummified, your organs removed, after you had lain in state for the proscribed period, you were laid to rest in an unmarked, unhallowed grave." A part of him, the part that had been born and raised in the latter part of the twentieth century, wondered at the strangeness of the story he was telling. Another part, that which had been shaped and forged by the inescapable legacy of the Med Jai, calmly accepted it as irrefutable truth. "That very night, Imhotep and his inner circle of priests, the ones he trusted the most, those who had been with you when Seti was killed, stole your body and carried you off to Hamunaptra, the sacred city of the dead. There, he laid your body on the altar, spread the canopic jars around you, and read from the forbidden black Book of the Dead, calling your soul back from the afterlife, reanimating your corpse."
She gave a small moan, closing her eyes, imagining the horror of that macabre ritual. Ardeth's voice droned on, laying out the history in painful precision.
"What he did was blasphemy, akin to spitting in the face of the gods. To save you, to bring you back from the dead, he threw away everything he had ever stood for, as high priest of Osiris. The black book was cursed, the spells and rituals anathema to the god he claimed to serve. Had one of his priests not defected, confessing this treason to the Med Jai, had the Med Jai not found him and cursed him, his own god would have done so. Your soul had been cursed already; to save you, he cursed his own as well."
He watched as tears streamed unchecked down her face, as she sat, stunned and weeping. There was a mere handful of sentences left. "The priest confessed, and the Med Jai found them there, in the bowels of Hamunaptra. Before he could finish his unholy incantation, before the body of Anck-su-namun—your body—could be completely restored, the Med Jai seized Imhotep, stopped him. The life seeped out from your corpse, leaving nothing but a hollow husk once more. As for Imhotep and his priests…
"The priests were killed, mummified alive, even the one who had at the last moment confessed to his unholy treason. No one could be left alive who knew what had transpired. Imhotep was forced to watch as this sentence was carried out. As for him, for the part he played, my forefathers called upon the worst curse they had at their disposal, the Hom Dai, and…"
Eliana held up a shaking hand, waving away his words, refusing to look at him. "Don't," she said, her voice quavering. "Don't. He told me about the Hom Dai. I don't need to hear it again. Please."
Ardeth watched her as she shook with silent tears, her head bowed over her bent knees. He couldn't be certain, but… He asked the question. "These tears of yours. They are not for yourself, are they? You have not remembered your past, have you? They are for him."
Lifting her head, she wiped her eyes with her shirt sleeve. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wet, tears still leaking from the corners. She said nothing, just stared at the Med Jai, locked in her own private misery.
"What has he done to you Eliana? If you do not remember your past, if even he could not bring it back to you, you are safe. Anck-su-namun is gone; only Eliana remains. I have come to know you, to care for you. You are nothing like you were then, nothing like her. Nothing like the previous incarnations." He had not told her about Meela, the most recent incarnation. There was only so much that he would heap upon her in the space of one day. Discovering what a treacherous, murderous woman she had been only one lifetime ago would do her no good, might make it worse, in fact. She was Eliana now, and Eliana was a good person, a decent person. He had no way of knowing what sort of strange dice game the gods played when choosing how or when to bring a soul back, but they had done well this time around. Even the Med Jai elders would find no evil in the woman before him now. And if that was so…
He paused, not sure if he should continue in the direction his thoughts were taking him. He was perilously close to forsaking his sacred duty, his age-old obligation to the Med Jai. What he was contemplating would be called treachery by some, a perversion of his loyalty to the twelve tribes. But he kept on, the words coming almost of their own volition. "I can help you Eliana. It is within the powers of the Med Jai to release you from the curse. If the elders of the twelve tribes agree, it can be lifted from you, its bonds on your soul broken…"
She stopped him with a single word. "No." Lifting her tear-streaked face to his, she explained the apparent folly of her decision. "I've betrayed him once already—not in this life, but the one just past. I will not betray him again. The curse is either lifted or not—and he seems to believe that it may be—but one way or the other, it is lifted from both of us, or neither. I will not leave him alone in this. Not again."
Ardeth listened silently, reading between the lines of the words she spoke. When she had finished, all he could find within himself to say was a single phrase. "I see."
"Do you, Ardeth? If you do, you're ahead of the game, because I don't understand a bit of it."
"You have feelings for him, then? Even though you don't remember your past? Even though your feelings place you in terrible danger?" He stood up, pacing back and forth in front of her, clearly agitated.
"Who am I in danger from, Ardeth? Him? I don't think so. He says he is mortal, released from the Hom Dai by the powers of Amun-Re himself. His only goal is to complete some mission for the god so that the curse will be lifted. After that, he clearly intends to go on to whatever afterlife has been promised him. He wants to die." Trying to keep the bitterness from her voice, she attempted to make the Med Jai understand. "He doesn't want me, he doesn't trust me. Meela betrayed him—I betrayed him—and that killed any love he felt for her…for me. He has made that perfectly clear. There is nothing between us anymore. It is over. All he wants now is death, the death that he should have experienced three thousand years ago. Three millennia is a long time to suffer, Ardeth."
He said nothing, so she went on. "So who does that leave? You? Am I in danger from you? From the Med Jai? I suppose I am, since I am Anck-su-namun reborn. What will you do, Ardeth? Destroy him? Kill me? Is that how you will protect your secrets?"
That broke his silence. "Eliana, I do not wish to harm you. I will not harm you. As for the Crea…" He stopped. "As for Imhotep, I can make no guarantees. If he does as you say, if he harms no one, if he seeks only to die, I cannot say what the Med Jai will do. They may allow him to go on to the afterlife. As you said, three thousand years is a long time. Perhaps they will feel that he has been punished sufficiently." He paused, clearly uncomfortable with what he must say. "But you must know, Eliana, that in the past, during the two other times he was awakened, he was a remorseless monster—a raging, murderous killer. Had he not been stopped, only the gods themselves know what would have happened. We cannot allow that. Should any of the powers of the Hom Dai remain, should he revert to what he was last, he is a plague to all of the Earth. He must—he will—be stopped."
Her gaze was level, steady. "I understand that, Ardeth."
"And still you wish to remain locked with him in this curse?" He couldn't believe it. "What has he done to you, Eliana? What power does he have over you?"
He stared at her, unblinking, until her gaze faltered, her eyes dropping from his. When she spoke, her voice was a quiet, sad whisper. "I love him."
Ardeth felt despair shoot through him, cold as ice, bitter as gall. So they were doomed again, the endless cycle repeating itself once more. Damn him! Even mortal, if that was truly what he was, Imhotep was a plague.
With a sigh, he extended a hand to Eliana, holding it out until she finally, hesitantly accepted it. Pulling her up, he looked at her for a long time, staring into the green of her eyes, a weight of sadness filling his own. "If that is so, Eliana, you need a friend now more than ever." Tugging ever so slightly on the hand he held in his, he pulled her into a soft, comforting embrace. For a second, she held herself rigid within his arms, not willing to trust him. Finally, though, her own sorrow won out, and she sank into the hug, lying her head on his shoulder, hugging him back, as the feelings of friendship they had shared only scant days ago came trickling back. Once again, she had a friend in Ardeth Bay. Knowing that, she gave into the misery she felt, and let the tears come.
Ardeth said nothing, just held her in his arms, quietly stroking the burnished auburn of her hair, whispering nonsensical words of comfort into the silky strands.
In the end, he could not stay away. He tried. He forced himself to go looking for the doctor, who he had known in another life as Evelyn Carnahan, in another still as Nefertiri. He finally discovered her, talking with the French doctor, discussing the sick man's case, and he hadn't wanted to disturb them. He would approach her later, when she was alone. Something told him that these new doctors would not be receptive to him. There was still some time, but he had to speak to her soon, or it would be too late. But for now…
He had known immediately that he had made a mistake in treating Eliana as he had this morning. She deserved better from him, after what they had shared last night. Even if he had made no promises, even though he had been perfectly blunt about what their future held, he still owed her something. And he wanted to see her. There was no denying the surge of joy that had passed through him when he saw her this morning; no refuting the fierce rush of desire, of possessiveness, that had filled him, even though he had masked it well. Oh, he wanted to deny it, he wanted with everything in him to not care about her, but he couldn't. It would be a lie, and after all this time, at the very least, Imhotep would be honest with himself. He did care. Against every bit of wisdom he possessed, every scrap of self-preservation, every ounce of pride, he cared.
And so, against his better judgment, his heart had finally triumphed over his stubborn mind, and he had gone looking for her. He hadn't had to go far. She was at the edge of the camp, locked in intense conversation with the Med Jai. He almost interrupted them; started forward, in fact, to do so, but at the last minute, some inner sense held him back, and he watched, concealed from their sight, as their conversation played out.
He was too far to hear the words they spoke, but close enough to see the tears on her face, and the look of protectiveness on the Med Jai's. He had no way of knowing what they talked of, but it was clear that she was upset, and the Med Jai was intent on offering her comfort. Comfort; and what else? He watched as the Med Jai pulled her up and into the comforting circle of his arms, as Eliana first stiffened and then relaxed into Ardeth Bay's embrace, leaning her head on his shoulder, accepting his touch, placing her own arms around his waist.
He turned away, betrayed again.
Fool! He cursed himself, cursed his awful weakness, cursed the gods, the Med Jai, and most of all, he cursed the scheming witch of a woman he could not manage to weed out of his system, whose touch was poison, whose kiss was fatal to his soul.
Shard by shard, the icy wall around his heart, the wall that had finally begun to thaw, re-formed, becoming even thicker and colder than before, quickly freezing the tiny shoot of hope that had begun to grow there. He turned on his heel, going in search of Nefertiri, or Evelyn, or whoever she was now. He would see the sick man now, and by the gods, no one would stop him, least of all that woman. Imhotep was tired of living, and only she stood between him and the end. The gods help her if she refused to get out of his way.
Getting in his way was the furthest thing from Callie's mind. On the contrary, when he asked to speak to her about Eric—explaining, as Eliana had recommended, that he had been trained long ago in alternative medicine—she welcomed him. Eric's condition had deteriorated steadily, even since the appearance of the World Health Organization team, and she was at a loss to come up with some way to help him.
Even if the lab report came in today, immediately, confirming what she and the other doctors suspected, Callie knew there was nothing to be done for Eric. Ebola was a hideous, virulent disease, fatal in ninety percent of all cases, and there was little to do except offer supportive care and watch as the virus burned its way through the host's body. Some people survived it; most didn't. Only time would tell. So if this newcomer, this Egyptian, could offer any help at all, she was more than happy to give him access to the patient.
Within minutes of his approach, she was ushering him inside the tent that still housed Eric. It would not be torn down until after he and Doug had been transported. Then, it would be ripped down and burned. After a brief exchange, Imhotep had accepted the face mask and latex gloves, mostly because Callie had all but forced them on him, refusing to let him in without them. Imhotep had followed her inside, his eyes rapidly adjusting to the gloom, and the closeness of the interior; but the stench of Eric's sickness hit him like a brick wall. It had been a very long time since he had smelled this sickly sweet smell of looming death. Then again, as he recalled the eternity he had spent trapped in the sarcophagus, with only the skittering of the beetles and the smell of his own rotting flesh for company, maybe it hadn't been that long ago at all.
As he took in the sight and smell of the sick young man, the words of her whispered warning still rang in his ears. "Careful," she had said, glancing worriedly at him. "I don't know why you didn't want all the protective clothing, but you have to wear it, and you need to be very cautious besides. He's terribly close to bleeding out, and if you should touch him, or if he coughs in your face…" She let the rest go unsaid, still worried about the fact that Doug had somehow gotten ill without overt contact with infected fluid.
He had looked at her and nodded, knowing that the disease jumped from host to host through direct contact with body fluids, and sometimes in other mysterious ways, as well. But unlike Callie, who had never before treated an Ebola patient, he had seen this disease before, long ago, and he knew he was not at risk. The few times he had cared for people suffering from this sickness, or one like it, Imhotep had been covered in their blood, had been coughed at, regurgitated on, and had still not fallen ill. It was strange, one of the many mysteries he had witnessed during his years of service in the temple, but he had attributed it to his being under the protective care of his god. While the sick and dying rotted all around him, when even some of the healer priests fell prey to the ghastly illness, Imhotep alone remained healthy and well. At the time, other than being very, very relieved, he hadn't questioned his good fortune.
He knelt by Eric, taking in the bloody spittle that trailed from one corner of his mouth, the whites of his eyes that were now fiery red, and the terrible creeping rash that covered his body. Eric was still, unresponsive, lying there while the blood curdled inside his still-living body. Imhotep felt for the pulse point in the young man's neck, and finding it, felt the sluggish and unsteady beat of his heart. It had taken only a minute, just a brief examination, but Imhotep knew, beyond a doubt, that this was indeed the plague to which Amun-Re had referred. It could be nothing else. This disease was ancient, having plagued the people in this corner of the world for countless millennia, appearing and disappearing at will, carving out a sweeping path of destruction while it was awake, and then fading silently back into the oblivion from whence it came. In his time, the sickness had been called Red Death. It was indeed a plague, and it seemed no great surprise to discover that even the gods themselves wanted it obliterated.
Realizing that, though, and actually doing the obliterating, were two different things. Imhotep leaned back, balancing on the balls of his feet. Never before had this particular disease been cured. Oh, some—a very few—had recovered from it, and others, like himself, had been exposed to it but not become ill. For the most part, though, it ate its way through an affected population, stopping only when it could find no more bodies to act as host. In his time, it had destroyed whole cities, laying them to waste, leaving behind nothing but a ghastly, oozing tomb. Imhotep knew of no cure—but he did remember something that had slowed its progress just a bit, buying time for the ill person to muster some reserves of strength to fight it off.
The plant grew in the wild, all across Egypt, and when its dried petals were ground into a fine powder, mixed with the clear waters of the Nile and given to a person suffering from the bleeding disease, it had near miraculous restorative properties. For a short while, before the virus simply overcame it, it had the effect of staunching the never-ending bloody ooze. In today's medical terms, it restored the blood's natural clotting properties. In the terminology of ancient Egypt, it served to dry up the river of blood.
Imhotep had no idea if the plant grew in the jungle of Ahm Shere, but he could certainly look for it. It was possible that it was here, and if so, it might buy Eric some time while the doctors of this age worked their miracles. With a nod to Callie, he indicated that he had finished his examination of Eric. She stood, leaving the sick man's tent, and with a solemn glance back at Eric, Imhotep followed.
Once outside, he stripped off the mask and gloves, disposing of them in the container Callie pointed out. She removed hers as well, and for a moment, they stood staring at each other, saying nothing. Finally, Imhotep broke the silence.
"There is a plant, a species native to Egypt, that can be given in such circumstances." He wasn't sure of its Hebrew name, or if there was a Hebrew name for it, so he went on, describing it as best as he could. "It is a flower that grows in the shade, where the soil is damp. It used to grow prolifically in the Nile delta. It may be that it grows within the jungle of Ahm Shere as well. I will look for it, mix the tonic, and give it to Eric. Will you help me?"
She looked dubious. "A plant, you say? I've never heard of such a thing used to treat Ebola. People have been looking for a cure for this disease for decades, and no one has ever mentioned a plant before…"
"It is not a cure," he pointed out, quick to caution her. "At best, it is a means for prolonging his life while we search for a cure, if there is such a thing." He looked at her, his gaze steady and sober. "I realize you have probably not heard of this before. It is an old remedy—very old. But I have seen it work, and I can promise that it does help, in some cases. Will you help me with this?"
The doubt was still there, but Callie was, first and foremost, a healer. She wanted Eric to recover, was willing to try almost anything to help him. When she spoke again, her voice was sure, steady. "Yes. I'll help you. But we need to get him moved first. Dr. Robillard wants to relocate to the pyramid as soon as possible."
Imhotep's face registered his doubts. "Is he strong enough to survive the journey there?"
"Not if we wait much longer," she said, her own doubts clear. "But if we get going soon, he should be all right. He and Doug, both."
"Doug? Who is Doug?" There was another sick man?
Quickly, Callie filled him in on Doug's condition, which was steadily following the same progression as Eric's. Only the day before yesterday, Doug had complained of a backache and headache. Yesterday, he had developed the nagging cough. This morning, when she had checked on him, Callie had seen the tell tale beginnings of the rash. Not wanting to frighten Doug, she had said nothing, just repeated her warning for him to remain in bed for a day or so. To Imhotep, she voiced her real concern—that although Doug had had absolutely no contact with the fluid from the statue, or from Eric, he had come down with the disease anyway. That meant the disease was airborne. That meant they were all in danger.
Imhotep nodded, realizing the seriousness of the situation, if that was indeed the case. "I understand," he said, looking back at the thin nylon barrier that was all that stood between Eric's disease and the rest of the camp. "We must work quickly, then."
She was quick to agree. "Very quickly. I'm afraid Eric is running out of time…" She stopped, as she saw Imhotep looking over her shoulder. Turning, she saw Dr. Robillard approaching, with Professors Bernstein and Hamid hard at his heels. Trailing behind them was the irritating man she had met yesterday, that obnoxious reporter from the American newspaper. Stifling an inward groan, she pasted a polite smile on her face.
"Are we ready for the move, gentlemen?" Her voice betrayed nothing of her concerns. It was calm and steady, as always.
"We are ready, Dr. al Faran," Robillard answered. "One of my staff will be assisting with the transfer. This gentleman," he pointed at the reporter, who smiled gamely at her, "will be helping as well."
He cast a dubious look at Bernstein and Hamid. "Apparently, no one else could be found to help, so Professors Bernstein and Hamid have kindly offered…"
"I will assist with the transfer," Imhotep stepped forward, and even in the rough worker's garb he wore, his regal bearing brooked no refusal, even if they had been inclined to turn down his offer. He turned to Bernstein, providing the man with a reasonable means of gracefully stepping down from the task. "You cannot supervise the relocation, if you are assisting here. Please allow me to do this for you." Although it was phrased as a request, it was clearly a statement of what would transpire. Bernstein bristled at the commanding tone, but agreed nonetheless. The younger man, for all that the archaeologist didn't trust him, would make a better human gurney for Eric.
"Well, that's a relief," said Robillard, obviously pleased. "Now if we could only find one more…"
"You have one." Ardeth Bay stepped forward. He had walked up from behind Eric's tent, silent and unnoticed, moving with his characteristic Med Jai stealth. "I will assist as well." Though he ostensibly spoke to the French doctor, his dark brown eyes were focused on Imhotep, clearly daring the Egyptian to object. The priest said nothing, his face as implacable and emotionless as always. Inside, though, he seethed, stifling the almost overwhelming urge to throttle the man. And where was Eliana?
Eyes not leaving Imhotep, Bay spoke to the doctor once again. "When will we leave for the pyramid?"
Robillard beamed at him, all too happy, now that he had his crew of able-bodied volunteers. "Right away," he replied. "We'll get you outfitted with gloves and masks, load the patients onto the stretchers, and we'll be off. Shouldn't take more than a few minutes."
Imhotep said nothing, only nodded. Ardeth was silent as well. Robillard hustled off, intent on rounding up the supplies they would need. Bernstein and Hamid, assured that the sick young men were in capable hands, headed back to supervise the others. Connelly, an amiable grin on his face, turned to Callie and winked. "Nothing like a nice walk through the jungle on a beautiful morning like this, huh?"
Rolling her eyes, she turned away, walking back towards Eric's tent. As she passed Imhotep, she paused briefly. "Thank you," she mouthed. She hadn't spoken aloud, but the priest understood her anyway. He bowed his head in a brief salute, watching her as she rounded the corner of Eric's tent and headed off, picking up her doctor's bag on the way.
Imhotep couldn't help but be surprised at her friendly acceptance of him. Not even a flicker of awareness had shone in her eyes when he had first approached her; nothing at all indicated that she sensed anything was amiss. He had seen her reaction to Connelly when they first met; he knew she had recognized the younger man on some level. But as for him, the doctor seemed blithely unaware of any previous connection. The memory of her past lives was apparently even more deeply buried than was Eliana's. Thank the gods for that. The last thing Imhotep needed was to have this sublimely irritating woman suspicious of him. He corrected himself. In this lifetime, she was not irritating at all, even though as Evelyn Carnahan, she and her family had been the equivalent of his own personal plague. Even as Nefertiri, she had managed to be a harbinger of doom, alerting the Med Jai to the peril of her father, Seti, before Imhotep and Anck-su-namun had had time to escape. In this lifetime, though, she was a dedicated doctor, knowledgeable about her field, dedicated to her patients, and open to the concept of new ideas, even those not within the realm of traditional medicine.
Strangely enough, Imhotep found himself almost liking the woman.
"She says you are mortal." Ardeth spoke from the head of Eric's stretcher, directing his words at Imhotep's back. The priest gave no indication that he had heard, just continued on the path as before, carrying the foot of the transport device. No change in posture; no subtle tensing of muscles; nothing. For all the reaction he gave, Imhotep might as well not have heard him. Ardeth would be damned before he spoke to the arrogant bastard again.
The silence dragged on, as the Med Jai and the priest carried the oozing, but still-breathing carcass of the sick man towards the pyramid. The little procession traveled single file through the trees, with Robillard and the archaeologists at the lead, followed by the Sudanese, the students and then the workers. The stretchers bearing the sick men trailed behind, as much due to the slow pace required for their transport as it was to the fact that no one particularly cared to be near them. Connelly and the medic from the World Health Organization were just ahead of them, carrying Doug. Imhotep knew that Eliana was up ahead as well, with her father and the other men; he knew, also, that she still had the Scepter. He could only hope that the artifact's protective powers were strong enough to extend through the entire caravan. Should the Pygmy mummies choose this moment to attack, he didn't hold much hope that they could outrun them, and they couldn't leave the sick men behind. No, their only hope was in the Scepter and its ability to ward off the denizens of Ahm Shere.
He gave some thought to the Med Jai's statement, debating whether to answer it. In the end, he could see no reason for not doing so. It was, in fact, the truth. But still, he bristled at the thought of Ardeth Bay talking with Eliana about him. "She told you that?" The words had the ring of an accusation.
Ardeth looked at the tall Egyptian, somewhat surprised. The silence had stretched so long, he had begun to think that the priest actually hadn't heard him. He kept his voice carefully neutral as he answered. "She said that is what you believe."
"It is true." Imhotep's voice was expressionless as well, an emotionless void.
"She also says that the curse has been lifted. You have said that, as well." Ardeth didn't necessarily want to play twenty questions with the priest, but the hike was taking a while, and they had time. And he needed to know.
"So says the great god, Amun-Re." Imhotep provided the most basic of answers, not at all forthcoming about the details.
Ardeth stifled a sigh. "Why would he do such a thing? The Med Jai cursed you in his name, after all…"
Finally, some trace of irritation slipped out in Imhotep's words. "Perhaps the gods know what mere men cannot hope to know. Perhaps the gods have a plan that is at odds with the plans of the Med Jai." He paused, anger flaring in him, burning outwards, towards the man who embodied everything he had come to hate. "Or perhaps the Med Jai were wrong from the very beginning."
"Wrong? The Med Jai were not wrong. Do you deny that you and your lover murdered the pharaoh—murdered him in cold blood? You cannot. For that alone, you earned death." He paused, letting that accusation sink in, then delivered the final blow. "For what you did later, you purchased damnation."
"You have no idea, Med Jai, no idea at all." Imhotep's voice was quieter now, but its softness served to heighten the intensity of his words. "You were not there, you did not know…" The softness faded from his voice, replaced by a steely coldness. "No man on earth deserved death more than Seti."
"And still you speak your treason—Eliana herself has been convinced that what you did was just, righteous. You have somehow convinced her, even without benefit of direct memory of the event, that your murderous crime was warranted. How she could believe that, I do not know." He shook his head slowly, disbelief painted as clearly as the tattoos on his darkly handsome features.
Imhotep chose to ignore him. So Eliana had defended their actions to the Med Jai? Even without remembering her life as Anck-su-namun? Why would she do that? Once again, the silence stretched on, until Bay broke it once more.
"What do you want, priest?" His voice was low, demanding. "She says that you only wish to complete some task and then seek death, if the curse is truly lifted. Is that so?"
Imhotep let out an almost imperceptible sigh. How much had she told the Med Jai? Again, though, there was no reason not to tell him; in fact, there were several very good reasons for doing so. "She spoke truly, Med Jai. That is indeed what I seek."
"Why? Why would you seek to end your life, if you can call it that? In the past, during your last awakenings, you embraced the powers of the Hom Dai with your entire being, your whole soul. You lusted after the power; gloried in it. What is different now? Why should I believe you? Why should any of the Med Jai believe?"
Imhotep slowed, forcing the Med Jai to reduce his speed, as well. Anger sizzled in his every word. "I do not care if you believe, Med Jai. What you or any of your kind think is immaterial. You mean less than nothing to me." Slowing even more, he came to a halt, shifting the burden of the stretcher from one hand to the other, turning to face his foe. "But for the sake of expediency, I will explain it to you. Perhaps then, you will stay out of my way, let me complete the task. Listen well, for you will not hear this from me again."
Ardeth nodded, his eyes locked on the glittering coals that were the priest's eyes. In the obsidian-dark depths, he could see the burning hatred for him, for all the Med Jai. "Speak, priest."
Imhotep took a breath, and began. "I did not ask for the powers of the Hom Dai. They were a gift," his lips twisted in an evil grimace, "from you and your brethren. And they were useful to me, useful to my goal, when last I walked the earth."
"Anck-su-namun?" Ardeth queried, already knowing the answer.
Imhotep's head bowed in a brief nod. "Yes. The powers of the Hom Dai would allow me to bring back Anck-su-namun, return to her the life that you had stolen, return her to me. Beyond that, they would serve as reparation for all that you had taken from us—and all the misery you had given." For a moment, Imhotep was silent, as three thousand years of suffering replayed themselves in his mind.
Ardeth kept silent, not wanting to cut short the priest's revelations. Soon enough, Imhotep went on. "I was a fool, Med Jai. The last time, in my last awakening, Anck-su-namun was returned to me—reborn in the body of Meela, restored in spirit through the power of the black book. You are familiar with this tale, I suppose?" Ardeth nodded. "Very well, then, I will not elaborate, except to say again that I was a fool. I had somehow expected that her love was as strong as mine—able to withstand anything, even the weight of three thousand years of agony. I was wrong. My love had endured; hers had not. In the end, it was not enough. She left, and I…" He faltered, not willing to let the Med Jai see this much of his exposed soul.
"I am familiar with the story, Imhotep," Ardeth cut in, his voice almost gentle. "Meela left you, and you cast yourself into the fiery pit of Anubis. O'Connell and his family escaped, and the pyramid was sucked down into the sands of the desert from which it had sprung."
Imhotep nodded. "It is as you say."
"But what of this awakening, priest? How has this one come about? I know how the Oasis was reborn. I do not know how you were."
Imhotep shrugged. "Eliana is Anck-su-namun. Meela. However many other lives she has lived over the ages. On some level, I suppose, she remembers. She remembered enough to be drawn to the pit, to find the Scepter, to let her instincts lead her to the spell which brought me back." He shook his head, looking off into the deep green of the jungle, still confused as to what, exactly, she had done. Explaining it to the Med Jai was difficult, when he himself did not understand. "Something she did pulled me back from the abyss, caused the great god himself to intercede. I do not know what it was. I cannot explain it."
His eyes met those of the Med Jai once again. "As for the curse, Amun-Re himself spoke to me, saying that it would be lifted, should I manage to complete a task for him, stop the progression of some plague…"
"A plague?" Ardeth's voice registered his confusion. "What plague?"
Imhotep pointed towards the man they held between them with a nod of his head. "The plague is before your eyes, eating through the body of this man."
"This is the plague? This is probably Ebola." Again, the disbelief. He went on, explaining the obvious, asking the obvious, as well. "There is no cure for Ebola. What can you do to stop it?"
Imhotep's dark eyes took on a haunted look. "I do not know."
Ardeth shook his head, not knowing what to think, what to believe. Assuming the priest was telling the truth in the first place was almost more than he was prepared to do. But it would explain a few things, like why Imhotep had come to the camp in the first place, instead of simply taking Eliana and going away. He thought for a few moments, then spoke. "Suppose I believe you. What then? If you are able to somehow stop this…plague, which I doubt is possible, what will happen? You say you're mortal, that the curse is lifted. What will you do then?"
Imhotep stared straight into his eyes, straight into his soul. "I will die."
Ardeth snorted in derision. "Eliana said as much. Said that you wished for nothing more. That I cannot believe."
"No?" Imhotep looked almost surprised. "Why is that so difficult a concept? Think, Med Jai, think on it well. My life should have ended over three millennia ago. Instead, I was bound to the Earth, bound to this body, damned for all time by this curse your forefathers placed on my soul. I watched as the scarabs feasted on my flesh, felt every bite, every skittering touch of their feet. Dead, but still alive, I watched—felt—my flesh fall in strips from my bones. My mind called out in agony, but there was no answer, never an answer. I was alone. Completely, utterly alone, buried under the sands of the desert for countless ages, waiting, waiting…" He bowed his head, lost in some private agony. When he lifted it again, his eyes were cold as stone, his face set in an expressionless mask.
"The only thing that kept me sane, as sane, I suppose, as was possible, was the love I had for Anck-su-namun, the love I thought she had for me. It was still possible, if I could somehow break free, to use the powers I knew the Hom Dai had given me—would give me—to restore her, to restore our love. That is all I had. It was enough. It had to be enough." He shook his head.
"In the end, it was not enough at all."
Ardeth nodded. Strangely enough, he found that he understood the Creature, after all. At some level, he almost pitied him. He had loved deeply, completely. The woman he loved, who he believed loved him as well, had abandoned him to his fate, and walked away. Almost, almost, he was tempted to tell the priest what Eliana had told him just that morning. Surely Imhotep himself had realized that the woman Eliana had become was as different from whom she had been as night was from day…
Then, realizing the insane turn his thoughts had taken—Was he trying to convince Imhotep to stay? His Med Jai brethren would certainly condemn him for a traitor, if that were so—he bit back the words. Eliana would not thank him for his interference, and he realized that he was reacting in a very illogical way to the priest's tale. This man was his ancient, timeless enemy—how on earth could he pity the man? Shaking off the strange sensation, he simply clarified what the priest had already said. "So now you seek to die and go on to the afterlife? Amun-Re has promised you this?"
Imhotep nodded. "He has."
Neither man spoke for a long while, as they stared at each other across the length of the stretcher, across the body of the disease-ridden man. Finally, Ardeth broke the silence, inclining his head in a brief salute. "I do not know why, priest, but I am led to believe you in this." He stared long and hard into the priest's expressionless gaze, then nodded again. "Very well, I will do as she asks—you will be allowed to attempt this, and if you succeed, I will petition the Med Jai elders to let you go on to the afterlife. Perhaps you, and the great god, are right—three thousand years of punishment may be sufficient, and ridding the world of this plague—if you truly can do so—would be one way to repay your debt to humanity.
"But rest assured, Imhotep. I will be watching you closely, and should I see any reason to doubt what you have said, I will myself return you to your grave."
Imhotep looked at him for a long moment before allowing that evil grimace to crawl up his face and tip down the corner of his mouth in a mocking smile. His eyes sparked with a demonic light. "I would expect nothing less, Med Jai. I am sure you would try." Leaving the Med Jai in no doubt about whom Imhotep felt would prevail in such an encounter, he turned once again, shifting the stretcher so that he faced forward once more.
Moving in silence, the two men continued their journey, carrying Eric's disease-ravaged body towards the beckoning golden pyramid. In the soft early afternoon light that filtered down through the trees, the uneasy truce stretched between them, reed-thin and brittle as old bones.
Callie finished settling Doug and Eric into their new accommodations, two stark white isolation bubbles that the World Health Organization medics had set up within one of the interior rooms of the pyramid. That room, a small antechamber far removed from the great hall, accessible only via a long, drafty corridor, now bore an unlikely resemblance to any hospital room, anywhere on the planet. In fact, except for the stone walls, now scrubbed down and disinfected with gallons of bleach, and the lack of any windows, Callie would have thought she was in a hospital. The two self-contained chambers sat on one side of the room, a portable lab stretched the length of the opposite wall. In one corner, generators powered the life support equipment and monitors that the medics had brought with them. Callie had to admit that for all the inconvenience of moving the camp, this was a much better set up, for both the doctors and the patients.
Smiling at one of the medics who would remain with the young men to continuously monitor their vitals, Callie stripped off her gloves and mask and deposited them in a red-lined garbage container before leaving the sick room.
At the end of the hallway, she saw Imhotep waiting for her. Smiling, she thanked him again for helping to move Eric. Brushing away the thanks, he spoke with unusual abruptness. "How are they? Did the relocation worsen their condition?"
She shook her head. "No. Doug made the move perfectly. He's stable now, in good hands. Eric was in bad shape to begin with. I doubt that the move could have made him worse. They'll have access to better equipment now, better care." She looked up at him. "It was right to move them."
He nodded. "Good."
She took him by the arm, leading him down another hallway, this one leading towards the exterior. "Why don't you tell me a little more about this plant you're looking for?"
His expression grew troubled. "I watched for it on the way here. It is not an unusual species of plant, but I could find it nowhere…"
"Doctor al Faran!" Both Imhotep and Callie turned when they heard her name bellowed down the hallway. A winded, flushed Robillard advanced on them. The man was upset, visibly shaken. "Stop! We must talk!"
Callie stepped forward. As usual, her face was calm, her expression serene. "Yes? What is it, Dr. Robillard?" She waited for the French doctor to catch his breath, before asking again. "What's wrong?"
"Everything is wrong! I just got off the sat phone with the lab in Khartoum, Doctor. The test results are in. It is indeed a filovirus we're dealing with—Eric's blood tested positive, and the fluid from that statue was swimming with it—there was almost more virus than fluid in that sample. The stuff is lethal…"
"As we suspected, Doctor Robillard." Callie watched him carefully, alarmed at his visible agitation. Surely he had dealt with filoviruses before? "So this is Ebola we're dealing with, then?"
He nodded first, then changed his mind and shook his head. Finally, he shrugged. "It is, and it isn't. It's Ebola, yes, but not one of any of the known strains—not Sudan, not Zaire, not Reston. And it's definitely not Marburg." He scratched his head, at a loss for words. "It has elements that are common to all of them, though, and a few unique characteristics of its own."
Callie looked at him, alarmed. "The lab was sure? They are positive this is a new strain?"
Robillard laughed—a grim, harsh bark that echoed down the walls of the corridor, bouncing off them like a ricocheting volley of ammunition. "New? No, not at all—at least not based on what they suspect. New to us, maybe, but…"
"Doctor, I don't understand you. Is this a new strain or not?" Callie was becoming worried about the man. His color was up, and his eyes had a peculiar, glazed look about them.
"It's new to us, Doctor al Faran—we've never seen it before. No one has." He pushed his reading glasses up onto his head, and rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. "But it's not new—if anything, it's ancient. The lab is convinced, based on what it's seen in your samples, and the characteristics of this virus compared to the others, that what we've got here is the grandpere of them all—a sort of viral missing link."
"What?" Callie asked again. "I'm sorry, I still don't understand. Are you saying…?"
"Yes, Doctor. This virus that you've found here is the great-great-great—who knows how many times great, when you're talking viruses—grandfather of Ebola. Whatever it is, the others all seem to be its offspring. It's incredibly old, incredibly virulent, incredibly lethal."
Callie said nothing as Robillard pulled his glasses back down off his head, pushing them up onto the bridge of his nose. He looked more tired, now, than anything else. She put a hand on his shoulder. "What are we going to do about this, Doctor Robillard?"
"What can we do? We'll treat them like any other Ebola case. Provide them with supportive care, watch their vitals, hope like hell they're among the lucky ten percent who pull through and survive. Although Eric doesn't look like he's got too much luck left in him."
She frowned, not willing to give up on Eric just yet. Robillard patted her hand. "Don't worry; we're not giving up on him. He may surprise us all." He took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts. "In the meantime, the lab has the blood and fluid samples, and they're being prepared for shipment to the World Health Organization headquarters for further study. The infectious disease specialists are very excited about this, you know, in an academic sort of way. It's understandable, I imagine. It's not every day you find something like this…"
"No, not at all," she said, glancing over at Imhotep. The Egyptian stood off to the side, watching them impassively, but she saw the flicker of interest in his eyes. It was obvious that he realized Robillard had gotten some important news. Since she and the doctor had spoken in French, she knew he hadn't understood them, hadn't heard this new bit of information. She would have to fill him in later, in Hebrew. He would need to know, anyway, now that the diagnosis was confirmed, if he wanted to continue helping her. With a confirmed positive Ebola case, and the presence of the World Health Organization, the makeshift infirmary would soon look like a space station. No one would be allowed in or out without full protective garb. You didn't take chances when working with a Level Four biohazard.
But she would make sure he got in. If they were to have any chance of fighting this new menace, which was apparently not new at all, they would need all the help they could get. Callie didn't care if that help was traditional or non-traditional, French of Egyptian, new as a baby or ancient as the hills. All she wanted was to find some way to help Eric and Doug. If Imhotep could play some part in that, she would make sure he was as much a part of this as any of them. When dealing with a disease like Ebola, especially a previously unknown strain of the lethal virus, they couldn't afford to overlook anything.
Mousa, erstwhile leader of the Sudanese contingent, wiped his hands on his pants, having just made use of the makeshift latrine. Shortly after their arrival, the workers had set it up near the jungle, as far away from the pyramid as possible. They had hurried with the job, taking no great care with the set up, but it filled its purpose, and no one was complaining, at least not now.
Casting an anxious glance over his shoulder, Mousa peered into the forest, alive and crawling with the shifting shadows of late afternoon. Nothing appeared amiss, though, so he turned to go back to the new camp, which was being erected just outside the perimeter of the huge structure. Already, tents were springing up, and Mousa could hear as the camp's loud cook, Sabir, shouted a variety of orders and curses at the workers he supervised. Mousa grimaced. He felt little liking for the noisome cook. Sabir was loud, and blunt, and worse, he could see through the airs that Mousa affected. None of those traits endeared the pragmatic cook to the portly bureaucrat, although even he had to admit that Sabir's cooking was excellent, for camp food.
Offhandedly, he wondered when supper would be ready. Hopefully, not much longer. He didn't know how much longer he could manage to avoid putting in an appearance outside his tent. As soon as they had completed their trek through the jungle, he and his fellow bureaucrats had commandeered several of the workers and ordered them to set up tents for them. Now, they were busily engaged in their usual business—avoiding anything that took on the appearance of real work. At least Mousa and his three aides were. Hassan and Azziz had finally tired of the overt whining of those four and went off to find Bernstein, to see if they could help set up the new camp. Mousa grimaced. He was quite sure there was work aplenty. He looked up at the sky. The sun was far down towards the horizon already—only a few hours left until supper, at the most. He was sure he could avoid Bernstein and Hamid until then.
A sudden movement from the jungle caught the corner of his eye, dancing in and out of his peripheral vision before he could be sure he had seen anything at all. Spinning around, he gasped in shock. Approaching slowly, cautiously, were three men he recognized from his own superior's personal staff. They had their weapons out, and looked anxiously around them. Obviously, they had had the pleasure of meeting up with the natives. Mousa held back an oily smirk. Pasting on his best diplomat's smile, he walked forward, holding out his arms in welcome.
"Gentlemen—welcome to Ahm Shere! To what do we owe this honor?" The other men didn't come forward; they simply watched as he approached. His brow furrowing into a frown, Mousa kept going, until he was in the jungle itself, well into the underbrush, blocked from the view of the camp by the walls of the latrine. "What is the matter, gentlemen? Have you encountered some of the natives? Surely your weapons were adequate for self defense…"
"Self defense and more, Mousa," growled the leader of the three. With lightning quick reflexes, he jerked the weapon into position and fired a single round at the portly little man. The silencer on the weapon did its job well—only the smallest popping sound emanated from the gun's barrel. Wearing an almost comically surprised expression on his slack face, Mousa dropped to his knees, a thin trickle of blood running down his forehead from the hole now there. In near-slow motion, he toppled over, falling onto his face in the weeds. He twitched once, then went still.
At a wordless signal from their leader, the two other men each grabbed an arm and dragged Mousa off into the depths of the forest, dumping him unceremoniously into a gully far from the camp. There, the vicious little natives, who they had indeed encountered, would soon make short work of him.